the Ghost of You
by Another Local Dreamer
Summary: A week after Lucy's death, Lockwood starts to notice strange things happening around 35 Portland Row. Just some Locklyle angst for you all (with a happy ending). Remember, the review button is there for a reason, not because it looks pretty! One-Shot.


_It's only been two hours,_ Lockwood thought numbly, as he trudged up the stairs to his room at 35 Portland Row. He stopped at his and George's landing, and he continued looking up the stairs, towards the attic. Towards Lucy's room. Lucy's _old_ room. Now vacant, as of two hours ago. All of her things were still up there, waiting for her to come back. But she wasn't coming back. Just like Jessica.

Maybe she would come back. He hoped so, sort of. But, it was very unlikely for her to come back as a Type Three, aware of herself and her actions. At best, he'd get a Shade, just a repeated echo of the vibrant, sometimes volatile soul she had been. And worst, he'd get a Specter, or a Phantasm, or, heaven forbid, a Wraith. Still Lucy, but a violent, twisted version of her. God, if only he'd been faster.

 _ **THREE HOURS EARLIER**_

 _ **JOHN HOWARDS TOMB, WESTBROOK GRAVEYARD**_

 _ **2:00 AM**_

 _ **BLACK WINTER**_

Lockwood looked at George and clapped his hands together. The graveyard was dark, overgrown, and misty. The headstone of intrest was covered in spiderwebs-a sure sign. Lucy was muttering unintelligible things to the skull in the jar. The circle of iron chains was barely big enough for the three of them. Holly was back at Portland Row.

"Right then, what have we got on this John Howard fellow?" George pushed his glasses up imperiously.

"Modern times? Not that much. Chap was buried nearly one hundred years ago, and no one's heard a peep out of him yet."

"Until..."

George shot Lucy an evil look and continued.

" _Until_ five people turned up dead with ghost touch on this stretch of road. Local night-watch kids tracked creeping fear and malaise to this gravestone. Then Inspector Barnes called us."

Lockwood frowned. " _Five?_ There hasn't been statistics like this since the Mud Lane Phantom, when no one even knew what a ghost _was._ "

George nodded. "This fellow fits the bill for an angry, violent ghost. Man was a serial killer in downtown London a century ago. Best known for his violent mutilations of-"

"That's enough, George.", Lucy broke in. "We get it. He was a horrible man in life, and a horrible ghost in death. Shut _up,_ skull!"

George looked up suddenly. "Temperature's dropping. Thirty two. Twenty Five. Fifteen."

"He's coming.", Lockwood said. "Rapiers out everyone."

"Don't need to tell me twice.", mumbled George. Suddenly Lucy cried out and dropped to her knees, hands over her ears. Lockwood knelt down beside her.

"What's wrong?" She shuddered against him.

"'Can't you hear it? The wailing-and-and the screaming! It's like Combe Carey!"

Lockwood could almost hear something, just on the very edge of his hearing. If it was this loud for him, he couldn't imagine how it was for Lucy. She had the best Listening of anyone he'd ever met.

Suddenly the mist around them swirled up to create a huge, grey figure. It's arms were far to long for its body, and the fingers were tipped with razor sharp claws. Lockwood couldn't see the thing's legs, as it appeared to be wearing a ragged gray cloak. And the face... well, let's just say Lockwood would be having nightmares tomorrow night.

George straightened his glasses. "Well, I guess we can check Shade off the list." Lucy had managed to stand up, but her face was white and she was shaking. The creature screeched, nearly sending Lucy to her knees again. It was so loud, even George could hear it.

Lucy was clenching her rapier so tightly, Lockwood worried her knuckles would burst through her skin.

The ghost prowled along the iron barrier, testing it every now and then. Each time it made contact, its plasm would fizzle and green sparks would fly. It backed away, and lunged, smashing right through the barrier. The three of them all chucked a magnesium flare at the monster at the same time, and it disappeared in a shower of salt and Greek Fire.

Lockwood turned around amd gave his megawatt grin. "That's how it's done, gang! We'll come back tomorrow and dig up the Source, then it's off to Clerkenwell for Mr. Howard!"

Lucy's face contorted in shock and fear, and she violently shoved Lockwood out of the way of something. He landed on his rear and could do nothing except stare, ghost-locked, as John Howard, or what was left of him came crashing down on Lucy. That shook him out of it, and he and George leapt to their feet, throwing salt-bomb after salt-bomb, flare after flare. The ghost shriveled up and vanished, but they were too late. Her last words were, ' _It wasn't your fault._ ' Then she was gone.

 _ **TWO DAYS LATER**_

Lockwood, George, Kipps, and Holly had just finished interviewing their latest job applicant. It wasn't good to have an Agency down an Agent. They'd gotten plenty of good applications, but none of them were _Lucy._

Holly was still crying, and George had thrown himself into research with a renewed vigor, bordering on obsession. Kipps stopped making jabs and quips at the agency's members. And Lockwood... Lockwood was numb. There was no better word for it. Days seemed to just drift past. The thing that made Lucy's death even worse? Right before the last job, he'd realized something. He was in love with Lucy Joan Carlyle.

He wasn't sure when it had started. He thought it might have been in the catacombs, under the Aickmere's Department Store, when he'd vaporized that Fetch, and Lucy looked at him like he was the most wonderful thing in the world. It had given him a funny feeling in his chest, one that was not entirely unpleasant.

Maybe it was even before that, at Combe Carey Hall, when she was about to step into the Heretic Monk's well, and he had known he just _couldn't_ let that happen.

He had been too scared to tell her, half-covinced she would either laugh in his face or punch him. Now it was too late.

Of course, he shouldn't have been surprised, not with their line of work. Live fast, die young, as they say. He was honestly surprised he had made it this far. But Lucy... she had always seemed so full of life. Even early in the morning, when she looked like a zombie and was belting out a rant that would wake the newly dead because George had left the skull in the microwave, again, and she was trying to make breakfast.

They had all been young and reckless, and sure that dying was for _other people._ Unfortunately, we're all other people to other people.

Lockwood had barely eaten anything the last few days, save what George had practically manhandled down his throat. As he entered the kitchen, he noticed something. The dishes, which this morning had resembled a scale model of the Himalayas, had been cleaned, washed, and dried.

Now, why was this strange? It had been Lucy's week for chores. Lockwood supposed George had done it. If he was taking responsibility and moving on, then so should Lockwood.

If Lucy were here she'd yell at him for being useless. But she _wasn't_ here, and that wäs the whole problem. He could almost hear her telling him to get his rear in gear and make some tea.

The second thing he noticed was the laundry, all done and neatly folded. Again, it had been Lucy's week, and Holly was out of town. He knew George wasn't that nice of a person.

He'd given up hope that Lucy would come back from the Other Side. All of her possessions had been taken and burned in a salt-fire, alonge with her body. It was the standard procedure for dead agents, according to DEPRAC. The attic sat empty, except for the skull in the jar. Even the horrid old thing was acting mopier than usual, no longer making ugly faces behind Holly's back.

Yes, all traces of Lucy Joan Carlyle living in 35 Portland Row had been forcibly removed and eviscerated, except for two. Her rapier, and the necklace that Lockwwod had given her. None of the members of Lockwood and Co. had been able to work up the nerve to get rid of the former. It rested in a place of honor above the mantle. The latter though, no one knew about except Lockwood. He had pulled it off her ghost-touched corpse before the authorities had arrived.

Lucy's funeral had been a simple affair, just friends and family. Lucy's mother and sisters had only stayed for half of it, making George turn so red, Lockwood was afraid he would burst. Personally, Lockwood had wanted to chase them down, skewer them with his rapier, and feed them to a Revenant. But then again, that was too good for them. If he had been in any state of mind when he got home, he probably would have noticed Lucy's necklace softly glowing blue against the darkness.

 _ **THREE DAYS LATER**_

 _ **2:00 AM**_

Lockwood couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Lucy and Jessicas accusing faces glaring at him through the blackness. He groaned and gave up. Maybe a cup of tea would calm his nerves.

He went downstairs and turned on the tap, filled the kettle, and put it on. Soon, a comforting bubbling noise filled the otherwise silent kitchen. After the boiling peaked, Lockwood turned off the electric kettle, pulled out a mug, and added water and a tea bag to it. Still no sugar.

He walked into the living room and grabbed one of his gossip magazines. He was about to sit in a chair, then remembered it was George's. He caught himself in time, then flopped down in his leather recliner. Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked up. His breath caught in his throat. There was another person in the room with him. And it definitely wasn't George.

She, the person, appeared to be very interested in the group photos of Lockwood and Co. They hadn't noticed Lockwood yet. Suddenly they glared at the ceiling and yelled "SHUT UP!" with such vehemency that their form flared as bright as the sun. It was a familiar voice, but that wasn't what bothered Lockwood. He was in a room. Alone. With a ghost. And no iron, silver, or salt.

Great. She turned around and seemed just as surprised to see Lockwood as he was to see her. A lump formed in his throat. "Lucy... " He reached a hand out, and Lucy stepped back. "Don't, Lockwood. It's not your time yet."

He choked up. "Lucy... I'm so sorry. I should have done something, been faster, better, smarter." She glared at him, doing the weird thing with her eyes. "Shut. Up." She glared up at the ceiling. "SHUT UP!" Lockwood stared. She ran a hand thrugh her plasmic hair. "Sorry. Skull's being a pain. Something about how he's in a jar and I'm not. Now, where were we?" Lockwood opened his mouth.

Lucy ran right over him. "Oh, yes. If you insist on coninuing to uselessly blame yourself like this, I will put Georges underwear in your bed before you go to sleep." Lockwood paled. "Are we clear? Good. Because if I were in that situation again, I would do everything exactly the same. Now, you need to move on and and solve the Problem for me. You're going to be the one to be the one to do it, I can just tell. Do you understand me? " Lockwood nodded yes.

Lucy began to fade. "Wait!", Lockwood cried. "I have something to tell you!" She smiled.

"I know."

As she disappeared, Lockwood thought he caught the last fading echoes of her voice. ""Jessica says hello... "

Lockwood sat bolt upright in bed. George and Lucy were watching him worriedly. "Are you OK?", asked Lucy. "You ran into that headstone pretty hard." George snorted.

"Yeah, then you managed to bounce off of it into the ghost. You're supposed to be our leader, not a bonehead. You've been out for the past week, recovering from ghost-touch and a concussion."

Lockwood was confused. He frowned at Lucy. "Aren't you dead?" She gave him an odd look.

"You sure you're feeling OK?" He waved his hand in the air loopily. "'m fine. You guys can leave." They nodded and headed for the door. "Wait, Lucy? Could you stay here a moment?"

He had something to tell her.


End file.
